


moving on a feeling here

by paperpenpal



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Ingrid Brandl Galatea Being a Glutton, No Beta, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Romance, Sylvgrid Week (Fire Emblem), day 4: confession, light humor if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:07:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24552094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperpenpal/pseuds/paperpenpal
Summary: It’s ball time at Garreg Mach Monastery and Sylvain has a date!  A totally completely absolutely platonic date.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 12
Kudos: 45
Collections: Sylvgrid week 2020





	moving on a feeling here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nightsdawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightsdawn/gifts), [emiwaka29](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emiwaka29/gifts).



> Because one of you wanted a follow up to day 2 and the other wanted something similar to "Rattle My Sleep" 
> 
> This isn't quite that but hopefully you'll enjoy it anyway.
> 
> Edit: Scroll down to endnotes for art by the lovely [@quixotic_coward](https://twitter.com/quixotic_coward) on twitter!

Sylvain checks himself in the mirror three times. Honestly, he’s never fussed that much over his appearance before and he’s not really sure why he’s doing it now. He’s never had a problem with it, the carefully curated rolled out of bed look has always been his go-to and it has always worked. Tonight should be the same.

But something about how his bangs sit, a little too messy, just doesn’t feel right. It’s a ball after all, shouldn’t he do something? Especially since they’re all wearing their uniforms?

It’s a shame really. He had hoped, sincerely, that they would let the girls get dolled up more. Wear a gown, be fancy, but no, instead, everyone will walk in with the same uniforms they wore every day.

It shouldn’t really matter that much to the boys. All of his suits look exactly the same, just in varying degrees of gaudy colors that clash with his hair but he had hopes that the girls would dress up. He’s always enjoyed the beauty of a dressed up gal but alas, he supposes he’ll just have to dream of it.

He usually hates formal events. They usually mean parading him around to show him off like a disinterested show pony but this isn’t that. This is much much better. This is some fun with his friends. This is no homework, no exams, no training. This is the flask that he slips into his breast pocket and a date he can’t be late to meet.

But still, he fusses with his hair but it doesn’t look any different than usual. Not in a way anyone can notice.

Good enough, he supposes. He’s never had a problem with it before.

—

Ingrid is not in her room. No, the poor thing had been dragged, probably kicking and screaming, all the way to Dorothea’s room to get ready for the ball.

He can’t imagine what she must be going through.

Sylvain had instead been instructed, very sternly, by a dead-serious Dorothea to knock on the girl’s door at precisely seven o'clock. Not a moment sooner, not a moment later.

And yet, when he does, she has the audacity to sing, “just another minute!”

But he’s not stupid enough to call her out on it. Dorothea has a wicked streak, an air for mischief that he can’t believe no one else sees, and, most importantly, the ability to shoot magic death beams from her fingertips.

He wants to have a good time here. He’s being patient.

Not at all intimidated, he swears.

The door opens two minutes later. He knows this because he was counting because yes, sometimes, he can be that petty, but he knows the counting will do nothing. He will never call Dorothea out on this. He does not need her hating him more than she already does. He does not need another woman to slap him for no reason.

Okay, so there are plenty of reasons to slap him, but he doesn’t think he’s given Dorothea one at least.

Yet.

Hopefully ever but he acknowledges the possibility of a yet.

Ingrid opens the door, when she sees him, she simply looks puzzled, staring up at his head.

“What?” he asks when she doesn’t say anything.

She continues to examine his head. “Did you do something to your hair?” she ends up asking.

“Er-” he says, a little taken aback. “I don’t think so? Why?”

She reaches up to his bangs, pats it down and brushes it aside for a second before stepping back. “I dunno, just looks a bit different but I’m not sure how.”

He goes to say something, something like, “Did it just for you,” or even “do you like it?” but instead he catches a whiff of a perfume so sweet that it fries the way the words come out of his mouth. He says something closer to “do it like” which makes absolutely no sense.

Ingrid’s puzzled expression remains fixed on her face.

Sylvain has to clear his throat and shake the way the nonsense reaches his ears in order to offer her his arm, “Shall we go?”

He’s pretty sure Dorothea’s put something in the perfume. Something that will fuzz his brain up at the smell of it. He hadn’t been aware that the girl was prone to practical jokes but he just files that away in his list of things to watch out for when it comes to her. He likes a challenge.

Ingrid stares at him, seems to consider whether or not to address his sentence salad, before deciding it isn’t worth it, and loops her arm through his. “Lead the way.”

He has never in his life lead Ingrid anywhere. She is always the one barreling ahead. This is no exception. Her steps are half a step in front of his and he struggles to keep up.

It is then he realizes, belatedly as she half drags him, that whatever it was the Dorothea had done had made Ingrid rather pretty tonight.

Practical jokes indeed.

—

Ingrid’s first move is to make a beeline towards the catering table. She doesn’t even bother dragging him, instead she simply lets his arm go and stalks off. It actually takes him a moment to realize it because, unlike Ingrid, who had set her sights so quickly, he had been actually trying to take in his surroundings.

But the second he does, he chases after her, “Hey!” he says. “Ditching me already?”

Ingrid spins around. “Oh sorry Sylvain, I forgot.”

“Forgot what?” He blinks, utterly flabbergasted.

“Erm- I kind of forgot you were my date.” She looks a little embarrassed and he can’t help but laugh.

“Ingrid it’s been like, two seconds, since we walked in.”

“Sorry?” she offers, trying to look earnest, but then a caterer in a serving tray walks by and her attention wanders.

“Okay,” he laughs, “food first, dancing later?”

The “yes!” she lets out is cute and he knows it is unintentional but he doesn’t have the heart to tease her about it. He’s not even sure she’s noticed that she said it out loud.

They make their way to the catering table, where Ingrid takes two plates. They are both for her, he knows.

He can’t help but be charmed by it.

—

Sylvain is only a little disappointed that the Professor is the center of attention. He knew it was going to happen. In fact, part of the reason why he’s decided to take a date to this dance was because he knew he’d have no chance in competing with the Professor. So he didn’t even bother.

But if he did, he would have made a game out of it. Maybe even bet Ferdinand on who could dance with more girls.

He would win of course.

—

Ingrid’s hair only ends up whipping in his face twice from the force of which he spins her. He does it on purpose. He’s actually a good dancer, he had to be, and Ingrid knows all the moves too, but he’s bored by waltzes, and it’s the only thing he can think of on the spot to make things more interesting.

“Sylvain!” she scolds, half-laughing as he dips her, way too low. “Stop that!”

“Stop what?” he feigns as he returns them into position.

“I know you’re better at this than you’re making yourself out to be.” There’s mirth in her tone. It’s infectious and rare. He wishes she could see her like this more often.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He spins her again, listens to her laugh, and likes the way it sounds on her.

—

Several more dances later, they find themselves by the catering again. Despite Ingrid telling him he could dance with someone else if he wanted to, he finds that, well-he does not want to.

It's a good thing he never made that bet with Ferdinand.

Instead he feigns an interest in the cream puffs and she happily chatters away about it, not seeming to care very much if he’s listening.

He’s not listening for the record. He doesn’t actually care about the cream puffs, he can’t even imagine that Ingrid cares that much for the cream puffs. Not enough to talk about them, not when she would rather eat them.

She has only eaten three, not counting the ones she ate before the dancing. He knows because he counted.

And it’s not weird to count, he swears. He’s only doing it so he can tease her about it later. He’s always teasing her about this or that. Her cream puff inhalation count is just another thing he can hold over her head.

He doesn’t get to hold a lot of things over her head. She’s a little too perfect sometimes so he has to make things up. Especially since he has done quite a few things she could hold over his head.

But only the things she knows he doesn’t actually care about, things like a scarecrow and a grandmother- not anything that matters.

She knows when to stop.

That’s why they work so well.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, tapping her free elbow for attention. Her other arm has a plate on it. She has swapped from cream puffs over to meat skewers. Most people would do it the other way around. “You want to get some air?”

She tries to hide how conflicted she looks as she glances first to Sylvain and then back to the plate in her hands.

“You can take it with you,” he tells her, trying not to smirk.

—

For the briefest of moments, he considers taking her to the Goddess Tower. He doesn’t know why. It just comes as a quick passing thought but there would be too much implication there and she’d probably just smack him so he guides her into the courtyard instead.

There are a few others mingling about, he can see Dimitri and the Professor chatting among the stone pillars.

He wants to be alone, he thinks, somewhere with just Ingrid. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t think it matters.

They find a bench, relatively secluded, there doesn’t seem to be anyone here.

“Having fun?” he asks as they sit.

“Yeah, I’m having a pretty nice time.”

“With the ball or the food?” he teases.

She nudges him with her shoulder and polishes off the last skewer before setting it aside. “Both, can’t it be both?”

“I thought for sure you’d say the food. Guess I’m a pretty good date after all huh?”

She glances over at him, a smile on her face, looking almost a little bit coy. He realizes now how close their hands are on the bench and something buzzes in the space between them, static or magic, or both, he’s not sure which.

Or maybe that’s just him.

“I guess you’re alright,” she tells him, kicking her feet out. “I thought you’d want to dance all night though.”

“Only if it’s with you.”

He watches her crinkle her nose and bat her hand in his direction, “stop that,” she says, “we were having a nice moment.”

“Hey!” he says, offended, but actually, genuinely a little offended, normally he wouldn’t be, “I was serious.”

“Mmm hmm.”

She doesn’t believe him.

He can’t help but huff and it is this that makes him reach into his breast pocket and pull the flask out.

“Really?” she says, an eyebrow raised with stern disapproval.

It doesn’t work on him. It’s not even close to one of her meanest looks. This is maybe a level two stern that she’s pulling, probably because of the way the night has gone so far. She’s having fun, she doesn’t want to ruin it, so she’ll let it slide within reason. “Want some?” he offers.

She glances at the flask suspiciously.

“It’s just wine Ingrid.” He unscrews the lid and takes a sip.

“I’ve never had any,” she admits with a frown.

“Okay then you definitely need to try some.” He hands it over to her. She takes it tentatively, still suspicious.

“It’s just a sip Ingrid,” He coaxes. “But if you really don’t want it, you don’t have to have it.”

“No…” She says, shaking her head, “I’ll give it a try.”

He watches her hesitate a few times, thinking it over, and it’s cute, really, how something so small can be so hard on her for reasons he doesn’t understand, but before he can take the flask back, before he can absolve her of her inner torture, she holds it up to her lips and takes way too big of a sip.

 _I could love her,_ he thinks suddenly, and then, looking at the way her face scrunches at the taste, he thinks, _I want to._

Sylvain has never loved before, not like that at least. He has liked many people and hated a great many more but he has never loved, not in the way he wants to love Ingrid.

“That’s awful,” she says as she hands the flask back to Sylvain. “Why do people drink that?”

He laughs. “They don’t. This is really _really_ cheap wine.”

“Why in the world do you have it?”

He shrugs. “Came with the flask?”

Her face is still scrunched up. “How long have you had that?” she asks, holding her expression.

He frowns, digging in his memory, “Erm.”

The eye roll she gives him is legendary but the mood between them is too good to break. He can see it in the way she tries and fails to hide her amusement and he wonders if he might be a little caught up in the moment, wonders because the next words of his slip out too easily and without a care in the world.

“I think I like you,” he says.

Ingrid looks up, glances at him. That puzzled expression from earlier is back. “What do you mean?” she asks.

He considers taking it back but it doesn’t feel right. “I think I like you,” He says again.

Somehow, he is not afraid for what might come, whatever it is.

“Guess I’m the one that’s the good date,” she says lightly with a grin.

 _Ah,_ he thinks, when she doesn’t panic, _she doesn’t get it_ , but somehow that’s okay too.

He stands up, brushes something invisible off of his uniform jacket, something that’s not quite as bad as disappointment, and offers his hand. “Shall we return?” he asks with a deep bow, “to continue our great date?”

“It’s great now?”

“Two good dates make a great one right? That’s how it works.”

Ingrid laughs, takes his hand, and together they return to the ballroom. He’s okay with this for now, he thinks, but just for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I wrote this really late but it's still day 4 somewhere in the middle of the ocean...right?  
> [OG Tweet here](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EcmkX4SUMAECYz1?format=jpg&name=large): 
> 
>   
> 


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